Amicus
by songxbird
Summary: Watson's engagement to Mary Morstan brings about an inevitable rift between him and Holmes, but why, exactly, is the good doctor so very eager to leave? Set seven months before the movie. Eventual Holmes/Watson, but strictly platonic for now.
1. I Practice Makes Perfect

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Watson's engagement to Mary Morstan brings about an inevitable rift between him and Holmes, but why, exactly, is the good doctor so very _eager_ to leave? Amicus is set seven months before movie-verse, and explores the events leading up to Watson's sudden departure. Eventual Holmes/Watson slash (first several chapters are strictly platonic), but don't let that deter you. I try never to sacrifice characterization for the sake of a desired pairing -- when they get together, it will, hopefully, make _sense_. Chapters are short for the sake of timely updates.

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**Amicus**

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"I have been reviewing my notes of our exploits over the last seven months. Would you like to known my conclusion?"

"Ah..."

"I am psychologically _disturbed!_"

_Sherlock Holmes 2009 (paraphrased)_

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**I**

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**Practice Makes Perfect**

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Between the hours of one and four in the morning, there is a certain stillness to the air that gives the appearance of peace. During the day, everything and everyone is often too occupied with the hustle and bustle of everyday life to notice how they so thoroughly shatter the brief chance at escape the very wind breathes into the open sky. Scents mingle with aromas, touch blends with the need to feel, and taste becomes a single point of blissful light in a world of bland substance. Night, too, is filled with drunkards and party-goers; gentlemen filtering out from the last act of an opera, seedy escorts seducing bits of gold and silver straight from a man's pockets, gambling houses ablaze with raucous noise and rowdy laughter.

But the early morning, between the hours of one and four, was meant for calm and quiet.

It was a truly unjust crime for one to be disturbed during these hours of peace, and were the event to occur, it was then justifiably reasonable for a quick temper and a swift bout of frustration to act as a perfectly acceptable reaction. Sometimes it was the bang of a door, or the unexpected _thump_ of an item being dropped on the cold wooden floor. Sometimes it was a shout or, more rarely nowadays, a scream from the street below.

And sometimes -- _sometimes_ -- it was the thin sound of a bow running expertly over a used violin string.

It was this latter noise that made Watson turn on his side with a huff of frustration escaping his parted lips. The thin tuft of hair below his nose was disturbed, if but briefly. _He_, on the other hand, had been disturbed for nigh an hour, and still the discordant melody would not stop.

Holmes was oblivious to modern conventions, and if a fancy struck him, he was oftentimes quite adamant in his pursuit of a poorly timed whim.

At first, Watson had considered this persistence admirable. Who wouldn't look up to someone incapable of sating a passing inclination to pursue further knowledge on any manner of information thrown (sometimes violently) his way? He had stood the odd hours when Holmes had paid his half of the rent on time, had suffered silently through the ill-advised gunshots when the detective had proven the worth of his experimentation, and had even reasoned away the early morning rants when Holmes had, in the end, brought a smile to his tired face.

But when the sounds of Schubert drifted almost seamlessly into Beethoven and, from there, creaked through the cracks in the walls to invade a sleeping man's senses in a shocking revelation of consciousness, Watson couldn't help but be a little miffed.

Awareness was for the rested, and sleep deprivation was for the dead.

Watson was neither.

He groaned, turned in his bed once more, then, when the act of giving his blank wall the cold shoulder did nothing to dissipate the sound, planted a pillow atop his head in the false hope that it would in some way give him the quiet he needed to sleep.

When it came to Holmes, there was no such thing as hope. One had only logic and reasoning, and the ability to manipulate another's actions with nothing more than clever words and strategically contrived situations. Hope was a preordained plan.

If he had known his roommate was incapable of upholding a regular sleeping schedule, Watson would have perhaps continued his search for a less expensive residence with a less troublesome comrade.

Rolling onto his back, the doctor clapped his hands over his ears and hummed a little war jig to himself.

Ignorant, as it were, that this was only the beginning.

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**TBC**


	2. II Gambling With Addiction

From what I've heard, the original Holmes had a bit of a fixation on recreational drugs (particularly cocaine and morphine). I've not read the novels myself. Please note that all information on characterization is taken directly from the movie. Or Wikipedia.

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**II**

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**Gambling With Addiction  
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When the smell of decay mingled translucently with the distinct scent of death, and these disturbing aromas interwove within the threads of every article of clothing he owned, Watson did not seek out the embrace of a woman to mask the scent with her overpowering perfume, nor did he drown it out with the smell of whiskey or gin. Instead, he sought the solace of Lady Luck -- an ambiguous figure, though given a name associated with a feminine disposition to better soothe a gentleman's frayed nerves once he found out he'd gone and spent all his meager savings on a chance at fortune.

Sometimes, the simple act of being a doctor was enough to set him on edge; the constant house calls, the diabolical illnesses, the death and depression and hollow condolences that came with the job. If not the drink, it was no great wonder he had fallen back on the dice.

The first time he had lost his half of the rent on a high stakes game, Holmes had merely waved off his insistent apologies and told him not to worry about it.

The second time had garnered a curious look.

"Is it safe to assume this will not be the last time I am left to fend for the both of us?"

Watson had bowed his head in shame, but shook it in a decidedly determined manner.

"I will not disappoint again."

"Highly unlikely."

The doctor looked up sharply, some sense of indignation playing across his features.

"I will _not_," he asserted, his eyes unflinching in lieu of Sherlock's unwavering gaze.

The other man paused, blinked slowly, then let a little smile break past his otherwise serious features.

"You are addicted to the thrill of a game."

Taken aback, Watson extended his arm in accusation towards a little leather case sitting open on one of the detective's cluttered counters.

"And you are addicted to something else entirely!"

He was a doctor. It hadn't taken long for him to notice the mysterious bruises along his roommate's arms, or the inconspicuous syringe always kept within arms reach of wherever Holmes was currently sitting.

The detective had enough good grace to glance in the direction Watson was pointing, but that was where his geniality ended.

"We all have our particular strain of poison."

"Mine will not kill me."

"No. It will only have us tossed out on the street due to our inability to pay the rent. We will then be forced to rely on wit and cunning to weave our way through the secrets of surviving the harsh reality of homelessness before the weathered nature of mankind gets to us. Food will be particularly difficult to acquire, though I suppose we can stoop to eating the wildlife of England's alleyways. I'm not very fond of sewer rat, but if we can stave off hunger, then we will only have to worry about disease."

Watson took a private moment to wonder if this man _ever_ stopped talking, then rubbed a hand across his face in exasperation. The movement seemed to end Sherlock's little rant, and he was left with nothing more to do than sit in his armchair and stare expectantly at the doctor.

"Abusive drugs," Watson emphasized.

"Sewer rat," Holmes countered.

They both stared at each other, deadlocked.

The doctor caved first, flicking his eyes away from his roommate's unnerving gaze and over towards the door.

"I'm going out," he intoned, snatching up the coat he had left hanging beside the door and gripping the cane that was propped up in the corner.

"Try not to spend all your money," Holmes called back, picking up a newspaper and rifling through the pages for something mentally stimulating to read while, in the same instance, reaching for the little leather bound case sitting not three feet away.

Watson shut the door on that last request.

He didn't return that evening.

It was all the better.

Holmes didn't _remember_ it.

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**TBC**


	3. III The Wages of Sin

For any hardcore Sherlock fans out there, please remember that this story is based almost entirely off of Guy Ritchie's version. When I say "Sherlock", I see RDJ. When I say "Watson", I see Jude Law.

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**III**

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**The Wages of Sin  
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The third time Watson was unable to pay the rent, Holmes had merely _tsk_ed his disapproval and informed the doctor that he would be making it up to him, one way or another. Though the detective hadn't denoted a particular time or place, nor had he exacted the conditions of this payment in a timely manner, Watson was still left with the bitter taste of foreboding that settled in his stomach and rose up in his mouth.

Nothing good would come of this.

He toughed it out, though, and the sense of nervousness was enough to keep him wary of casting his lots for a whimsical care. Every time he passed by an upturned barrel surrounded by a group of rough men playing a game of craps, he had to swallow thickly and force his feet to keep moving. If a third instance of losing the rent instigated an ambiguous payment, he could only wonder what a fourth instance would provoke.

One week passed, then two. Nothing out of the ordinary occurred, and so Watson was nearly able to completely forget the condescending threat.

Looking back, he supposed that had perhaps been the intention all along.

The doctor was working in his study, had been for the extent of the day, and was just settling back into his desk chair after taking a brief moment to stretch his arms and circle once around the room. The light was fading and soon he would have to light a lamp to continue with his work. He had spent the entire day organizing his notes, filing his clients into a nice, neat little stack which was then carefully sectioned off to a corner of the desk. He was at the threshold of completion when a knock on his door broke his concentration and nearly made him jump.

Without waiting for an answer, the intruder pushed open the heavy mahogany wood and sauntered inside the relative sanctity of his private room without a word of salutation.

"You say you're a doctor?" asked Holmes as he leaned against the wall and spared a moment to light his pipe.

"And greetings to you, as well," bit out Watson, his voice too shocked to be indignant.

"'Hello' is for the man incapable of striking up conversation without the tertiary form so ingrained into his perspicuous mind, or for the person whose intelligence is set to abound on plains of familiarity. I have neither the time nor the mental insecurity to bother with the word."

"Yet you seem perfectly capable of bothering to explain this to me."

Holmes gave a little smile, then puffed out a breath of pipe smoke.

"Are you, or are you not, a doctor? If you've been pretending this entire time, I will try not to hold it against you."

Defeated, Watson lifted up from his seat with a sigh.

"Yes. I'll show you my degree if I must prove it to you."

Sherlock waved his hand in dismissal.

"We are both respectable men who happen to occupy the same living space. There is some measure of trust between us."

The doctor snorted at that, not bothering to hide the exasperated smile that danced across his lips.

"What have you need for?"

"A certain corpse has come into my possession which holds an abundance of secrets locked within its unmoving form, and I've come to realize that the only key available to me is tucked safely away within the folds of a doctor's coat."

Watson paused, licked his lips because they had suddenly become very dry, then cleared his throat and pressed onward in as formal a manner as he could manage.

"... Before I ask how you've acquired this dead body, I must make it known that my services are not for free."

"Do this for me, and consider your debt lifted."

The week of rent he had wasted away on a fanciful card game. Right.

"Where is it?"

"In my study," Holmes beamed, then flit out of the room without another word. Watson followed closely behind.

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**TBC**


	4. IV Misery Loves Company

Thank you for all the wonderful reviews!

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**IV**

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**Misery Loves Company**

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Their rooms were connected by the length of a hallway, and though Watson's was most usually organized in the impeccable manner of a man not used to clutter, one might have used the bad allegory of a bomb igniting on a train wreck which was then swept away by a tornado to describe Sherlock's living space.

When Watson crossed the threshold into this strange new world it certainly wasn't the first time he had been witness to his roommate's disarranged headquarters, but the sheer organized chaos never failed to surprise him. Papers were strewn about the floor, various odds and ends scattered across every usable (and some not quite usable) surface , and had the good doctor not known better, he might have wondered how Holmes got anything done in such a land of disarray.

There was only one spot in the room that could have passed for relatively clean, and even then there was a dead body strewn across the table that simply ruined the entire effect.

Watson paused just inside the doorway and watched as the other man made his way towards the corpse without a care in the world.

"Now that the matter of my payment has been settled," Watson started, eyeing the other warily. "I'd like to know why in the bloody hell there is a dead man keeping you company."

"Because the living one has been holed up in his room all day," Holmes shot back.

"Had I known your loneliness would have driven you to murder, I would have at least locked my own door."

"It isn't good etiquette to kill a doctor."

"How fortunate for me," Watson answered dryly. He was prompted to inch closer into the room, however, and gently shut the door behind him so no one would peek inside and find two men hovering over a lifeless fleshy mass.

It was quite obvious to him that Holmes hadn't killed the man. If the detective had enough good grace to joke about it, then it was unlikely he had the capacity to commit the murder. Still, laughing in the face of a dead man's pale features was not a blow Watson was willing to take to his moral compass, so he shut off the friendliness that was a natural part of his gentlemanlike nature, and affected the air of a cold doctor.

"What do you need?"

"Time of death, and cause."

Watson fished out the measuring sticks he kept on his person and started to exam the body in front of him. The pupils, any skin discoloration, the teeth and toes and fingernails and general skeletal structure. Fractured ribs, broken bones, singed hair. There was a peculiar blister on the side of his face that was red and bothersome and probably quite recent.

"Ten to twelve hours prior," he finally concluded, lifting up but still staring at the body as opposed to meeting Sherlock's intense gaze. "It appears something impacted his diaphragm. The broken ribs hindered his breathing, and there are third degree burns on the right side of his face. Was he a metal worker? The bruise on his left side is about the width of a blacksmith's hammer."

When there was no reply, the doctor couldn't help but turn to look at his companion.

Holmes was watching him in the kind of manner a scientist might watch a pinned and helpless toad as he dissected it. The look was unnerving and made Watson itch. It was sheer analytical, bordering on approval but nearly having tipped over into the realm of uncertainty. Sherlock wasn't the kind of man to stay uncertain for long, so with an affirmative nod to himself, he strode towards the corpse. His hands seemed to naturally clasp together behind his back, the fingers interwoven much like the peculiar way he paced around the room, sparing passing glances at the body and at Watson in varying manners.

"His name was Jacob Hatchet," he began, still moving about. "He died ten hours ago from internal bleeding. Took a rather nasty blow to his side, and ended up falling onto the superheated edge of an iron poker. Hence the burn and the bruise. He _was _a blacksmith."

Watson paused, took a step away from studying the body, then quirked an eyebrow in the other man's direction.

"If you've already deduced as much, then why...?"

"Call you here?"

"I was going to say 'waste my time', but that is a more polite way of putting it, I suppose."

Holmes ignored the jab.

"Because, dear Watson." He took a puff of his pipe then glanced sharply in the other's direction. "If you are ever to miss the rent again, I must at least know what you're capable of."

"You seem to be doing just fine on your own."

Watson frowned at Sherlock's nonchalant shrug.

"Yes, but misery does love company."

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**TBC**


End file.
